


Sundered Song

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heated and intense reunion between Cullen and the Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sundered Song

**Author's Note:**

> The closest I get to writing angry sex. XD

“Maker’s fucking mercy, Cullen, please–”

His teeth sank into her throat, right where it joined her shoulder, and he suckled until she could feel the bright line of painpleasure drawing all the way to her womb. His mouth worked up toward her ear, kissing and nipping, and he breathed a dark, growling “Stop talking,” before nipping the thin skin below her earlobe.   


She shuddered and jerked her hips against him, then pushed hard against his chest, shoving him back. His teeth scraped her throat, and it made her whine like a dog in heat, but there was at least a third of her still capable of thinking, dazedly, angrily, “How dare he!”

He growled, his chest tensing under her pressing nails, his hands tightening on her hips, but she wasn’t about to make anything easy for him no matter how wet he made her cunt. Her yellow eyes were molten hot and she raked her nails down his torso, wrapping her callused hand roughly around his cock and squeezing.

The lines around his eyes tightened, but his mouth slackened. She felt a frisson of triumph shoot through her, and her nipples tightened at the thrill of making him react, relent, give in to her touch. She sank down to her knees, not a damn thing in her of surrender, challenging him with her eyes and her hands and her heart and her hurt, even here. 

Their eyes caught, blazed, banked embers searing back to life like the love in his heart, her own eyes molten like the fires at the heart of the world, sundering the song of the lyrium. Her mouth was curved with sin, with victory, with temper, with love. 

“You first, Commander.”

And then she swallowed him to the root.

A harsh cry tore from Cullen’s throat, his head thrown back with the agony of sudden searing pleasure. His hands twitched, flexing, grasping at empty air. She pulled her lips up to the crown of his cock, stroked his foreskin back, slick under her hand, and dragged the flat of her tongue along the divot in the crown to sweep across the slit, tasting him all salt and musk and hot iron. She stroked his shaft slowly as her tongue circled the corona, then closed her mouth around him to suck hard. 

His hands finally settled on her head, threading tightly back through her hair, tangling it in his fingers. She cupped one hand around his sac, squeezing very gently, at odds with the assault of her mouth. A stuttering cry escaped him, and he tightened his hands in her hair, pulling her down onto his cock with a muttered plea that was half profane and half divine. 

She went slowly, resisting the strength of his hands on her head, letting him know in no uncertain terms that every moment of pleasure was her choice. She liked the feel of him pressed deep, the pressure of him at the very back of her throat, the way he filled her mouth, the curve and velvet heat of him. Her tongue lashed the length of his shaft, and she sealed her mouth tight, sucking until her cheeks were hollow, working her throat against the swollen head. 

His voice was an unstrung litany of Chant verses and her name and the sort of crude profanity that soldiers used. His fingers stroked through her hair, mindlessly gathering it in one hand in a tail, then letting it fall loose again. Shudders traveled down Mira’s spine and she twisted her head, coming back up in a long stroke, then taking up a quick, merciless rhythm, until she felt his hands tightening again. She pressed down deep, swallowing around the flared head, and his hands were tugging at her hair, not roughly but insistently, and his litany had changed. 

“Stop! Maker, Mira. Stop.” His voice was hoarse, tense with need. 

She pulled back to the tip of him, suckling gently, her eyes cast up to meet his. He released her hair and took her shoulders, urging her up. She watched him tug down at his sac a little urgently as she stood, and scowled at him.

“I worked for that orgasm, you know.” She pressed close against him, digging her chin into his shoulder and nipping at his throat before rocking back on her heels.

He laughed raggedly, and the sound curled up in her chest like a big golden cat, keeping her heart warm. His hands were back on her hips, holding her away from him. “I missed you. Maker’s breath, I missed you.”

She could feel the heat in her face and it made her prickly with annoyance. Damn him and his tender words. “You’re changing the rules of engagement on me, Commander.”

His mouth kicked up at the corner, that fucking scar pulling his smirk into territory that was positively sinful. His amber eyes were dark and hooded with desire, drinking her in. He was so beautiful she couldn’t stand it. She tried to reach for his cock again, wanting him begging and undone in her hands, in her mouth, again, but he wasn’t having any of it. His smirk widened, and he grabbed her wrist, twisting her around into a deft hold and catching both of her wrists behind her, circling them with one hand and *laughing* at her when she tried to twist free and stomp on one of his feet.

Maker fucking take swordsmen anyway. “I’m going to kill you.” 

She knew about five different ways to get free, and only one of them involved dislocating someone’s shoulder. She stood steady, shoulders tense in this position with her arms locked at her back, but not uncomfortable for the moment. He wasn’t hurting her, and they both knew it. 

She felt the heat of him against her back before his mouth reached her. He went straight for the bite, red and aching at the lowest point of her neck, and worried it tenderly with teeth and tongue. She gasped, slightly more substantial than a breath, and arched her back, pressing her flesh back into his mouth. Her cunt twitched emptily, aching. 

“Did you know,” he asked in almost a conversational tone against her shoulder, spreading his kisses out, warm and wet and hungry against her skin. His free hand stroked down the curve of her ass, along the cleft, and two of his fingers plunged into her cunt from behind. 

She choked on another gasp and rocked her hips back against him, trying to simultaneously keep her throat open for his biting kisses and entice him to stroke deeper into her heat. 

“Did you know,” he repeated, his fingertips rubbing circles inside her. “That in Orlais they call Fereldans the Dog Lords?”

She whined as he nudged her thighs farther apart and forced his fingers deeper. Her hips rolled and writhed, trying to establish some kind of rhythm, but each time she twitched, he would pull his fingers back, teasing her with a constant retreat. He had left another bite higher on her neck, and he dragged his tongue between the two marks, connecting them with damp heat. 

Her breasts ached, her cunt clenched, her swollen pearl neglected within her folds. “Cullen!”

The bastard chuckled against her shoulder, pressing a light kiss to her skin. “You didn’t answer me.”

Her mind was hazed with lust. “What?”

“Did,” his fingers thrust in deep again, “you,” and again, “know?” He withdrew with a long stroke, rasping calluses against her tender inner flesh, and took his hand away. 

She whined again, struggling a little to try to free her arms. His stubble rasped along her cheek as he nuzzled her, his voice a dark purr in her ear. 

“You taste so sweet, my love.” His fingertips traced her lower lip, and she opened her mouth with a panting breath, sucking them clean of her own sweet tang without a moment’s hesitation. 

She moaned around his fingers, tongue stroking his calluses, echoing her attentions to his cock. He pressed against her back, cock a heated brand against her ass, and rasped her jaw again with his stubble. She imagined that rough stroking sensation against her thighs, her cunt, the tips of her aching breasts, and shuddered. 

“Bastard.”

He kissed her abraded jaw lightly, his damp fingertips tracing her lower lip. His hands had tightened on her wrists when she struggled, but they were still tender. “You only say that because I haven’t fucked you yet.”

She twitched at the way his voice lingered on the profanity caressingly. Cullen Rutherford couldn’t even say “fucking” without making it clear he meant “love-making.” It was possibly one of the most aggravating and heart-warming quirks of his personality. Mira huffed a breath, tilting her head back in slight defiance–but also because it let her nuzzle him right back. 

“Are you trying to wear me down with talking, Commander?”

“Not at all. Fereldans prefer a direct assault.”

A chuckle thrummed deep in her throat. “I’ve seen you play chess, serrah, there’s nothing direct about the way your mind works.”

He stroked his thumb along her wrist consideringly, but kept her in the hold, waiting.

It was almost shameful how quickly she was willing to capitulate to his tactics. “Andraste fucking wept. Cullen. Please elucidate me. Why do Orlesians call Fereldans the Dog Lords?” She rolled her eyes heavenward, ready to try a risky maneuver if it would give her enough mobility to end this farce and help herself to pleasure.

Another one of those chuckles. Maker, she was never letting him spend a month with his soldiers again. It turned him into a complete monster, no common–

He lapped at the bite on her shoulder gently, and her thoughts stuttered to a halt with her hissed breath. “*Yes.*  _Plait. Je suis à vous. Faire ce que vous voulez avec moi_.”

He groaned and buried his face against the nape of her neck. His free hand stroked her hips, skated up the soft curve of her belly, her ribs. He cupped her breast, rolling one tight nipple, rasping the edge of a blunt nail across it. 

“Fuck! Cullen, please.”

He shuddered and released her arms so suddenly she didn’t realize at first that she was free. He grabbed her hips and pressed close against her. “Bend over,” he breathed softly near her ear, a tender command. 

Her whole body tightened and she could have wept with relief. She was already halfway to being sprawled across the side of the bed when his hand stroked up the groove of her spine, firm and warm, pressing her down. He nudged her feet farther apart, and pressed between her thighs, the swollen, weeping head of his cock rubbing against her puffy lips. 

She was nearly incoherent with need, babbling in trade tongue and Orlesian against the bed, her hands fisted in the linens above her head. She turned her head on the coverlet, her golden eyes staring blindly, and begged for his touch. 

He was done making her wait. He thrust in deep, a long, hard stroke that bottomed out so that she felt the impact of it in her belly. A high, choked cry escaped her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight. 

“Cullen!” Her hips arched back and she tried to press against him.

“Mira. I love you.”

His hands stroked her sides, her back, thumbs caressing the dimples at the bottom of her spine, hauling her back into each of his punishingly deep thrusts. He panted breathlessly, feeling the tension coiling in the pit of his stomach again, watching the way the muscles in her back shifted and stretched as she arched and writhed before him. Her voice was thick with desire and lust and the rich Orlesian vowels, and sometimes she was barely coherent, babbling brokenly. 

He snapped his hips forward, feeling tension at the base of his spine, knew he was close, needing her to lose herself around him, to come screaming his name. He slid one hand roughly beneath her hips, searched out the swollen bud at the top of her sex, felt the way she was stretched obscenely around his cock and nearly lost himself. It was a struggle to focus, biting his lip, to stroke his fingertips across that swollen flesh and caress her until her thighs trembled and her back bowed and her mouth opened in a wordless shout–

He thrust once, twice, thrice, deep, pounding, rough, feeling her stretched and clenching around him, and lost himself as a ragged scream dragged itself from her throat. He came with a tense cry, his thighs rigid, hips pulsing against the soft swell of her ass, his cock buried deep in her hot cunt, filling her with his seed. 

Maker’s breath. 

His legs trembled, but he struggled not to collapse on top of Mira. She was limp beneath him, shuddering still with the trailing edge of her orgasm, breathing heavily. He watched the way her ribs expanded, her back shifting with each breath. Her face was turned on the bed, eyes closed, her tattoos stark like oak gall against her cheek. Her skin was flushed with arousal, satisfaction, and the abrasion of his stubble. 

It made his heart warm. 

He heaved a steadying breath, pulling away from her gently, and cupped his hands beneath her hips, stroking them up, easing one hand up against her breastbone and shifting her up fully onto the bed. Maker, she was heavy. She made a soft little sound, curling onto her side, and reached out for him. 

He came easily to her side, crawling onto the bed, drawing her against his chest. Maker, he had missed having her in his arms. He loved the way she tangled around him, all lanky limbs and softened angles, the way she tucked her face against the side of his neck.  

The angry red mark on her shoulder was starting to go purple and bruise. He felt a pang of guilt, and tightened his arms around her. 

“I’m sorry.” He breathed it softly against her temple.

She groaned and pulled back a little, one eye cracked open to fix him with a gimlet gold glare. “Are you trying to ruin a perfect moment of pleasurable exhaustion with remorse?”

He pressed his forehead to hers, and she shut her eye again rather than lose focus on his face. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he insisted softly.

She sighed, breath gusting gently across his lips, and tilted her head so that her nose rubbed beside his in a tender nuzzling caress. “How did this encounter start?”

He chuckled softly, “That aside, I shouldn’t–”

Her mouth stopped his words with a soft kiss. She pulled back again, tucked her head down against his shoulder. Her whole body curled into him lovingly.

“Stop talking, Cullen.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Je suis à vous – I am yours
> 
> Faire ce que vous voulez avec moi – Do what you will with me


End file.
